Chapter 30
Arundhati still sat in a daze, her heart hammering from the way Kushal had stood up to Kamya, so unapologetically, so fiercely, calling her ‘my wife’ in front of her rival. She was flushed with happiness, yet restless, sitting in the car, as he drove in silence.
She couldn’t hold it in.
“Thanks,” she murmured, turning to him.
He didn’t reply. His eyes stayed fixed on the road. But she pressed further.
“Did I really hear you say ‘my wife’? When you told Kamya not to disrespect me?”
Again, silence. Just his grip tightened around the wheel.
“You did say it,” she pushed, grinning. “Claiming me. What’s that supposed to mean, Kushal?”
Finally, his head turned hard towards her, just once. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. You’re still my wife on paper until the court approves the divorce.”
Her smile fell, but only for a beat.
“And the court is never going to approve it.” She shot back. “Even if they do, I won’t.”
Before she could throw more fire, the car slowed. She frowned as he pulled up not outside their office, but in front of her favourite Italian restaurant. Her brows furrowed. Why here? He switched off the engine, stepped out casually, and she followed.
She recalled that, early in their marriage, she had told him this was her favourite spot in the city.
They had never managed to dine here together, though.
Maybe he had noticed she hadn’t eaten all day and decided to bring her here for lunch.
A small, thoughtful gesture. Was this his way of making peace? Of finally taking a step toward her?
Still, she needed confirmation.
“Why are we here?” she asked softly, almost hopeful.
Kushal shrugged, scanning the entrance. “To eat.”
Her heart warmed. “Finally. Someone’s taking the lead. Let’s get inside. I’m starving.” She turned toward the entrance, took a few eager steps, but he still stood rooted by the car, making no attempt to follow.
Confused, she retraced her steps. “Come on.”
“You need to eat, Aru. Not me.”
Her brows knitted. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means this isn’t a date.”
Her annoyance flared hot. “So you expect me to go in there alone and eat?”
Before he could reply, Akash, their junior lawyer, hurried over, beaming at the two.
“Good afternoon, Ma’am, Sir!”
“Akash…” Arundhati looked between Akash and Kushal in irritation. “What are you doing here?”
Akash was still grinning ear to ear. “Sir messaged me a while ago to meet here for lunch. Honestly, he’s never invited me like this before, so how could I miss the chance?”
Arundhati shot a glare straight at Kushal, who didn’t flinch. Instead, he looked at Akash calmly and replied, “Correction, Akash. Your lunch date is with your Arundhati Ma’am. Not me. Enjoy. I’ll be off.”
Akash blinked, clearly bewildered, while Arundhati’s temper spiked, heat rushing up her neck. “You want me to have lunch with Akash?” she demanded, in disbelief.
“Why not?” he replied. “You can use him to spy on your husband, but can’t share a meal with him? Doesn’t sound very fair, Aru.”
That was the final straw. She closed the distance between them in two furious steps, fisting his shirt at the collar and yanking him toward her. “What you’re doing to me isn’t fair, Kushal.”
For a breathless second, their eyes locked, his scent surrounding her, his control visibly fraying. But then he caught her wrist, peeled her hand off his shirt, and dropped it.
“Nothing between us was ever fair,” he said flatly.
Sliding his sunglasses back on, Kushal turned without another word. He walked to the driver’s side casually to show how little her fury moved him.
She stood fuming in place, but he didn’t glance back. He simply got into the car and drove away. If she thought winning him back would be easy, she was sorely mistaken. He wasn’t going to bend. And as for her so-called game of wooing, he had no intention of even playing along.
****************
Two days later
At Verma & Associates, Kushal was in his cabin with Raj Verma, deep in discussion about a case, until he leaned back slightly and called out to the peon, asking him to get a coffee.
Arundhati, who had just stepped out of her own cabin across the hall, heard it as the door was open.
She didn’t wait for the peon to shuffle off to the pantry.
She went herself and brewed his coffee exactly the way he liked, and then, on a mischievous impulse, she sprinkled a heart shape on the froth with cocoa powder, the way they did in the cafés.
She slid the cup onto the tray and handed it back to the peon. From the glass walls of Kushal’s cabin, she had the perfect view. Her uncle Raj was mid-sentence when the peon placed the coffee in front of Kushal, who reached for it, and then froze as his eyes landed squarely on the little heart.
He didn’t need to guess who had done it. He knew. And he also knew she was watching.
Instead of drinking, Kushal slid the cup across the table toward Raj.
Arundhati’s smile evaporated. Her brows shot up, lips parting in disbelief. She couldn’t take it anymore and marched into the cabin, files clutched in hand as a flimsy excuse for her intrusion.
“Uncle, you needed these documents for the Sharma case—” She stopped, glaring at the untouched cup now resting in front of her uncle.
Raj Verma’s eyes flicked from her to the cocoa heart. Realisation dawned instantly that this was Aru’s little gesture for Kushal, who rejected it coldly.
He blinked at the cup, then at Kushal. “What’s this, Kushal? You asked for a coffee, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” Kushal said evenly, his gaze deliberately fixed anywhere but where his wife stood frowning. “But I don’t like… that heart on it.”
She clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to yell after Kushal, who rose from his chair without a glance at her.
“Excuse me,” he said stiffly. “I’ll make my own coffee.” And he walked out. Raj picked up the cup, studied the heart, and chuckled softly.
“Well, I wouldn’t waste such a… heartful coffee,” he said warmly, taking a sip.
She faked a smile, before leaving the cabin with her failed plan.
*****************
The next evening, Arundhati decided to test another angle. The sun had already dipped low when she stood outside the tall penthouse door, her bag slung at her side.
Arundhati had court today in the afternoon, after which she drove back directly to the penthouse. She tapped her foot impatiently, phone pressed to her ear as she dialled Kushal, who was still at Verma and Associates, flipping through some trial prep notes.
He answered in a few rings.
“Yes?” he sounded busy.
Her lips curved into a sly smile.
“Kushal, I’ve just reached home. I mean, I’m outside the door. My keycard is in my cabin at the office. I can’t get inside. Unless…” She let the pause stretch, baiting him. “Unless you just tell me the passcode?”
There was silence on the line. She knew him well enough to picture it: his jaw tightening, pen frozen mid-note, those sexy eyes narrowing.
But he wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what she was fishing for. The digits that once unlocked their home, her birthday, erased and replaced by something else. She wanted to know what had taken her place.
“Stay put,” he sharply replied. “I’ll call security. They’ll bring you a fresh card.”
“Kushal,” she interrupted, “why bother the poor guard? Just four digits. Say it.”
“Not happening,” he replied flatly, cutting the call before her protest reached him.
The line went dead. Her blood boiled. She stood there glaring at the locked door, muttering every curse she could think of under her breath. Of course, he wouldn’t give in. His ego wouldn’t let him.
She exhaled sharply, glaring at the keypad as though it had personally betrayed her.
Those four digits weren’t just numbers. They were his wall, his way of telling her she was still locked out of his heart.
It was twenty minutes later when the guard appeared, holding a freshly programmed card. She snatched it from him with a forced smile and marched inside the house.
*****************
It was finally the weekend. Kushal popped open a beer and settled on the leather couch, his eyes fixed on the football match flashing across the massive plasma screen. He leaned back, legs stretched out, remote in one hand, the occasional sip of beer in the other.
Arundhati wandered into the living room, barefoot. Football was never her thing, but the thought of being away from him tonight was worse. So she slipped onto the couch beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes pretending to follow the game.
Every so often, she stole quick glances at him…
the sharp line of his jaw as he clenched it during tense plays, the way his brow furrowed, the little sighs he made when his team missed a chance.
But he never once looked at her. Not a word, not even the faintest acknowledgement that she was sitting right there. Just football, beer, and silence.
Minutes stretched. The match dragged on. Soon her eyelids grew heavy. Against her will, her body gave in to exhaustion. She shifted, unconsciously leaning toward him until her head rested lightly on his shoulder.
That’s when he froze.
The muscles under his shirt went rigid, his hand tightening around the bottle.
She could feel the change instantly, both the pause in his breathing and his hesitation.
For a moment, her heart fluttered wildly.
Maybe… maybe he’d soften. Maybe he’d do what a husband who still cared, who still loved, would do.
So she kept her eyes shut, feigning sleep, waiting.
If he carried her to their bedroom, their bed, the one he’d barred her from, it would mean something. If he took her to the guest room, it would still mean he cared. Either way, she wanted to know.
But the worst happened.
The TV clicked off. The living room sank into silence, broken only by the faint clink of him setting down the empty bottle. Then, gently, he shifted her head off his shoulder, propping it against the couch cushion behind.